Chapter 7 #3
“She’s pretty,” Caleb says, taking a sip of his beer. I see him peer over at me, but I can’t look at him.
I can’t. I stare intently at my hands.
“Looks like she’s here alone,” Mal says and then asks, “What do you think, Whit? She look good enough for my boy?”
I peer up at Mal and force myself to say, “I’m not sure what his type is, so I can’t objectively say.”
Caleb rolls his eyes and nudges me with his leg. I don’t know whether he did that on purpose or is just being careless, but it doesn’t matter. It’s made something terrible well up inside of me.
Something dark and needy.
Something I’m not sure I want him to see.
“How about her?” Bree offers, pointing to a redhead on the opposite side of the bar. She’s laughing with her friends and seems like she’d be fun to spend a night with.
“She looks nice,” Caleb says as I take a long, much-needed sip of my drink. The gin stings as it goes down, and I feel it slosh in my stomach like an impending storm.
“Want to get out and chat them up? See which one sticks?” Mal asks.
Caleb nods. “Yeah, give me a minute to finish my beer.”
“You mind if we go dance while you do that? Love this song,” Bree says, and Caleb waves them off with a flick of his wrist.
Mal looks a little reluctant to go but is ultimately swayed by Bree’s hands dragging across him.
I roll my lips between my teeth before saying, “I didn’t realize you were actually coming here to pick someone up.”
“Yep. That’s the plan. That bother you?”
Of course it does, but I don’t say that. I can’t say it. Can I? Can I admit what I truly want? Because wanting anything feels dangerous when my entire life has been mapped out for me, when every desire has been dismissed before I ever had a chance to feel it, to experience it.
But I did with Caleb. For a moment, I was alive.
His beer bottle hitting the table with a loud smack has me jumping slightly.
“Welp, off I go. Wish me luck,” he says abruptly, scooting out of the booth. I’m stuck to my seat, watching as he strides across the bar, his ass looking fucking good in those jeans.
I shouldn’t interrupt. It’s not fair to him, but when he makes his way over to that cute girl who smiles up at him sweetly, I slide out of the booth and approach him.
“Excuse me. Can I talk to you, Caleb?” I say, my lips far too close to his ear.
He eyes me, and when I don’t move, he sighs and throws his thumb over his shoulder, leading me outside until we’re at his Jeep.
We face each other, silence looming like a shadow between us.
Finally, I just point at his Jeep and say, “Get in.”
He huffs and rolls his eyes again. “Um, I was kind of in the middle of something, man.”
Something angry moves through me, and I lash out, “I think we can reasonably say that she wouldn’t have gone for you.”
“Oh, you’re so full of shit, Whit,” he says, folding his arms across his chest, the anger and hurt clear on his face.
I huff and turn my gaze away, knowing this is hypocritical, but unable to stop myself. “Please get in the car.”
“Why?”
“We’re going home.”
“Uh, no. We’re not,” he says, dangling his keys in front of me. “In case you forgot, I’m driving. And I’m here for a chick, man. Don’t kill my vibe.”
My hands flex, and I feel something akin to dread move through me.
“I would rather you not.”
“Rather I not what?” he asks, his voice laced with annoyance.
I run my hand through my hair and peer at him, desperation slithering through me. “I’d rather you not take one of those women home.”
“And what’s it to you?” he asks, his gaze intent on mine. Heat coils in my stomach, the way he’s looking at me slowly undoing everything I’ve worked for.
Oh fuck. I’m going to cave. I feel myself slipping already.
“I’m happy to continue our previous arrangement, if that’s what you’d like.” My voice is measured and steady, completely opposite of how I feel.
His eyebrow arches as his eyes flick to my mouth.
“Arrangement?”
“Yes,” I say, and I hear him bark out a disbelieving laugh.
“You for real? You were the one to call it off. Think I recall you saying it was for the best,” he says, his fingers making air quotes.
I clear my throat and shift on my feet, feeling suddenly ashamed.
Shy. Like a terrible fucking person. I hate being wrong.
I hate how it sits inside of me like something sharp and heavy.
And since meeting him, I’ve been wrong every damn day.
He drags out uncomfortable truths from me every time he’s near me.
I loathe it.
I crave it.
For the first time in my life, I feel honest.
“I was mistaken.”
“Oh, is that so?” he says dryly.
“Yes.”
When he says nothing, I try again. “So, can we please just go home now?”
“And just leave Mal and Bree here?”
“You can text them.”
“We just got here.”
“I’m sure they will understand.”
“What if I don’t want to go home with you?”
I meet his gaze and tilt my head slightly, and then I do something I know I won’t regret. I take a step toward him—slow, deliberate—closing the space between us. His back hits the Jeep with a soft thud, and I press against him, feeling his cock harden against me.
Reaching down, I touch it and watch as his beautiful eyes flutter closed.
“I think you do,” I say softly, and then reluctantly step away from him.
He pouts adorably and then murmurs “fine” before hopping up into his Jeep without another word.
As he twists the key in the ignition, he pulls out his phone and texts someone—probably Mal or Bree.
I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, but watching him go off with someone else made me want to flip tables. I’m not proud of it either. But the jealousy hit fast and hard, a fist to my chest.
So, here we are, driving back to our apartment in complete silence. And when we’re in the living room, Caleb turns toward me.
“So, what now, huh?” he asks, his expression guarded, like he’s bracing for impact.
My eyes rove across his body, and I ask, “What would you like, Caleb?”
He runs a hand through his hair and scoffs, “I cannot believe this. I’m so stupid.”
My chest twists. “You’re not.”
“I am. I ditched my friends and my plans to come home with you, and you won’t even say what you want.” He runs a hand down his face. “I’m going back. What the hell am I doing here with you?”
But I can’t let him leave, not after I’ve given up so much for him already. It shouldn’t matter, he shouldn’t matter this much, but for some reason, he does, so I reach out and grab on to his wrist.
“Stay.”
“Nah,” he replies, but doesn’t move any further. Doesn’t escape even though he easily could.
“Let’s watch a movie,” I suggest, feeling desperate. “You pick. Anything.”
I tug him toward the couch, and I place the remote in his hand. I want him to crawl onto me, to tuck himself against my chest like he used to, but he doesn’t. He just sits across from me, not touching, not reaching.
I place my hands under my legs and face the television so I don’t do something he obviously doesn’t want.
“Why you sitting like that?” he asks after a beat, and I realize I am sitting like a statue. “Why do you look like you want to escape? You were the one who wanted me here.”
“I want to be here. I don’t want to escape. I’m just…nervous.”
His brows fly up, confused by my unexpected honesty. “Nervous?”
“Yes, because…I don’t know what I should do at this moment. I realize I’ve messed up, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what you want. But being only roommates isn’t what I want.”
I can’t look at him when I say this, but I feel the air shift between us, thickening, waiting.
He’s silent for a long moment, and I nearly crawl out of my skin. I can’t wait any longer. I need to know.
“What do you want, Caleb? Tell me, please,” I plead, and I hear him swallow.
“Well, I have missed being held,” he finally says so honestly. It comes so easy for him. The truth, opening himself up to another. What would that be like? To be completely open and honest?
“Yes,” I whisper and then turn toward him and pull him against me.
He comes easily until he’s lying right on top of me.
My fingers automatically thread through his hair, tugging on the strands until he exhales against my chest. My other hand moves on instinct, sliding up under his shirt and touching his back. He’s warm, soft, perfect under my palm.
How could I ever have fooled myself into thinking he wasn’t my type?
“I missed this, too,” I let myself admit, and feel Caleb tuck his face into my neck.
He shivers slightly. “Thought you were annoyed with how clingy I am.”
“You’re not clingy.”
“I am. I warned you, though.”
“I don’t mind it.”
His fingers drag along my collarbone, and I feel my entire body relax and tighten beneath him.
“What else did you miss?” I ask.
“You fishing for answers?” he teases, a huff of a laugh caressing my skin.
I tug roughly on his hair, and Caleb sinks into me further, rubbing his nose against my earlobe. I can hear his desperate pants against me, and it’s doing things to me. Things I can’t even try to hide when he’s this close to me.
“I think I’ll keep some secrets,” he whispers.
I’ll let him. I have too many secrets. It’s only fair he has his own.
So, we just lie there in silence, my hands under his shirt, touching, exploring the heat of him. I feel the curve of his hip, the muscles in his back, the way they tense and relax against my palms. The room is silent except for our slow, deep breathing.
Suddenly, he pushes up and sits back on his heels. I stare at his ripped abdomen as he grabs both his flannel and shirt and pulls them over his head. Then he tosses them carelessly to the floor. My gaze follows the movement, then shifts back to him. His defined chest, that nipple ring.
Perfection.
My breath catches, and his eyes darken.
“You looked good tonight,” I say.
“I always look good,” he says, and I feel myself letting out a disbelieving laugh. So confident in an effortless way. So different from me.
He wiggles further on top of me as I continue to stroke him. He practically purrs under my hands.